


shivering, bruised

by crowkag



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (read: existential cowboy crisis), Emotional Hurt, Existential Crisis, Fear of Death, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, One Shot, Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018), author also has many feelings about one cowboy, author knows nothing abt horses don't @ me, hesitant to tag this with that but yeah, tuberculosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25138603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowkag/pseuds/crowkag
Summary: Arthur hadn’t ever been so tired before. Not on Guarma, not after the doctor. Not when he’d challenged John to see who could stay awake the longest, years ago when he was a kid and the camp was home, his whole world pulling into the point of the Van der Linde gang.This wasn’t any of that sort of tiredness. This was… heaviness. A weight in the bones and in his heart.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	shivering, bruised

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this imagining that it takes place after the chapter 6 mission, favored sons. there aren't any spoilers pertaining to that specific mission, though. 
> 
> biggest warning would be that this does fall in line with canon, so arthur is sick and shows symptoms of it. not a lot of comfort here, i'm sorry :'(
> 
> also, this stars the horse i finished my first playthrough with, the missouri fox trotter. his name is casanova and he's my fav <33

Arthur hadn’t ever been so tired before. Not on Guarma, not after the doctor. Not when he’d challenged John to see who could stay awake the longest, years ago when he was a kid and the camp was home, his whole world pulling into the point of the Van der Linde gang.

This wasn’t any of _that_ sort of tiredness. This was… heaviness. A weight in the bones and in his heart.

The Dakota was nice, at least, bubbling beyond the bank. His fire, too, hastily made and not up to his usual calibre, but warm and working well enough at drying his wool-lined coat, spread out flat on the ground. Arthur huddled close around the flames, watching sparks flick up into the stars with his palms facing out. Sleep so desperately wanted to claim him, but he supposed this world had other plans.

There was a short nudge on his cheek, then another, and a gust of warm air when Casanova breathed heavily into his face, begging for attention. Arthur grunted both times, pushed the stallion away and fully expected the shove he got back, harder and more insistent. It nearly sent him toppling onto his side, though he caught himself before it could happen. When he twisted around, it was to fix wide, brown eyes with a look of solid disapproval.

“C’mon boy, it ain’t the time for this.”

Casanova snorted, continuing to stare expectantly in a way that made Arthur huff. All the same, he still reached one placating hand forward to scritch his horse’s nose.

“Yeah, I love ya, too. But it’s la—”

Quick as lightning, the stallion dodged out from under his fingers and shot forward, grabbing the brim of his hat between his teeth. Before Arthur could think to act, to reach out, to make some noise of indignation, it was yanked off his head and carried away. Casanova had an easy spring to his step, looking far too pleased when he turned to one side, bobbing his head up and down. Wild mane and battered hat both flapped mockingly with the motion, and Arthur stared.

Past the minute displays of surprise—mouth hung open a bare centimeter, eyebrows more twitchy than raised—he was still tired. It had been a day. Too damn _much_ of a day, and the trip back to Beaver Hollow would be steep, curving, dotted with the odd cougar or two. He wanted to sleep beforehand. He _needed_ to bully himself into sleeping beforehand.

But at the same time, exhausted annoyance was giving way to fond amusement. And Casanova—all spitfire, all stubbornness, Boadicea’s opposite in many ways but similar where it truly counted—had saved his hide more than once these past few weeks. So, shaking his head and allowing himself a laugh, Arthur pushed himself to his feet with slow, stilted motions.

“That’s playin’ dirty. You been spending too much time with me.”

Casanova snorted, pranced in place and then trotted away. Chuckling, Arthur went after him, pace not hitting a jog, but certainly faster than his lungs normally allowed.

He called, “This ain’t how you’re supposed to treat the sick, boy!” and ignored how the words were wheezy on their ends, tightened in their middles.

When he got close, darting a hand out to grab his hat, Casanova suddenly switched directions. The horse jolted away from reaching fingers, traded one side for another and traveled farther up the bank, ears relaxed backwards. Arthur followed, smiling, anticipating it when the same happened again.

Then again, and again, in a one-sided, thoughtless game of tag. They were going in circles before long, hooves pawing at riverside silt or clinking edges of spurs bending orange under firelight. Arthur paid little mind to his chest squeezing in a way that neared _dangerous_ , because he was laughing louder than he had in what felt like months.

(And playing with Casanova, something that tended to happen only when times were good and worries short-lived, made him realize it _had_ been months.)

Eventually, with Arthur’s hat long since dropped and forgotten in the dirt, the Fox Trotter slowed enough to allow a touch on his neck. Arthur scratched there, at a favorite spot below curled twists of mane. He breathed carefully, evenly, in his nose and out his mouth, as Hosea used to do when the coughing fits overwhelmed him.

“You’re… you’re wild, you aware?” he said, leaning more weight into Casanova’s side in a greater attempt to balance himself. The stallion blew air out his nostrils in response, held firm against the extra push, and—

Arthur doubled over, hacking.

Sudden, violent, fear shooting down his spine while phlegm shot up his throat, like a morbid tradeoff.

It hit the back of his teeth, momentarily clamped shut between the terror, and mixing in with the mucus and saliva was blood.

His blood, _his blood, fuck, he was dying._

_He was dying._

_“Sorry, son. It’s a hell of a thing.”_

Arthur heaved a breath in. Or, he tried to. He _tried_ to, trembling ribcage wrapped in muscles made of bruises, of stringy sinew. Away, he stumbled. Away from his horse, away from the white spots seeping into his vision, aiming for the bedroll by the campfire but finding himself against a large rock instead.

He spit into his glove, refused to look at the mess he’d find there, and slid down to the dirt with boneless legs. The fit had run its course, was fading fast to leave that heaviness in its wake. The more-than-tiredness, scrambling up around his heart again. Seeping into his marrow.

Arthur closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his reasons. His inward whys.

John. Abigail. Jack.

Tilly. Mary-Beth. Karen.

Hosea, who he wanted to make proud.

Dutch, who he still wanted to find pride _for_. Somehow. In some way.

The list went on. He had to steady himself. His breathing, for them. Even if it hurt.

And it hurt like hell.

Like fucking hell.

Sounding like a bootheel on glass.

Loud, like the river—

Dwindling, like his pathetic fire—

Wet, like the wool lining of his coat.

Arthur blinked his eyes back open, clenching and unclenching his fists. He calmed the trembling in one hand long enough to peel the glove off the other, tugging carefully at the fingers, trying to work fast but unable to miss the spots of red on the fabric. He slipped it off inside-out, balled it up and shoved it down the right-front pocket of his pants.

He took the other one off, too. Just to make things even.

Then he tilted back against the rock behind his head, and stared up at the stars, which blinked back pretty in a silver sheet. Arthur knew—or just read somewhere, or heard from someone—that scientists thought they were big balls of gas and light, millions of miles away. It seemed impossible, but Arthur supposed he didn’t know much about the impossible. That, and science.

He didn’t know a lot of things.

And he wished he did.

**______________________**

The feeling of his hat falling into his lap was what shocked him back to the moment. He glanced at it, the frayed rope and cracked leather looking foreign and familiar all at once.

Casanova stood over him, eyes wide. Questioning, perhaps.

Concerned.

Arthur took a breath in the way a broke gambler took another bet.

“You’re right, boy,” he croaked. “We should go.”

**Author's Note:**

> i know this isn't what i usually post, but i'm currently on my second playthrough of red dead 2 so i got cowboys on the brain :') just reached chapter 4 and am TERRIFIED to continue.
> 
> i'm also just feeling burnt out, and this proved relatively easy to fix up. i looked back to see when i first started writing this, and funny enough, the first draft on google docs was created on my bday last year !! which probably says something about me, idk.
> 
> anyways, i'm strangely satisfied with this piece. and i wanted to share it for whoever might want to read!! so, as always, thank you for reading, leaving kudos, commenting, all that <33


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